Summer 2007

Katherine Jaeger took Angela Jane Fountas' class, “A Frenzy of Fixed-Form Narratives,” in order to practice keeping things short and sweet; she estimates that “Fugue State” is about 2,500 words shorter than her next-shortest story.

“Fugue State” takes the form of a Fibonacci sonnet. Like the Fibonacci sequence of mathematics, the word count in each successive sentence is the sum of the two previous sentences (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21…). In this case, the sequence increases to 34 words before shrinking back to one word. A fugue state is an amnesiac state often characterized by the need to be in motion, to flee.

“Fugue State”
By Katherine Jaeger

Flatbush?
Rockaway?
No dice.
The A-train stinks.
At least his suit's pressed.
He knows this much: he likes pressed suits.
Nobody, it seems, has yet noticed he doesn't know where to get off.
A lanky man in a dirty track suit shambles down the aisle, uttering, with gusto, like a mantra: cheeseburger…cheeseburger…cheeseburger…
While he assumes this is probably not his own name, the dactylic rumble of the word is teasingly familiar and soothing, as if something his mother had called him when he was a baby.
But there's grey slate where surely there must once have been texture, color, memory, a name: pumpkin, lovebug, poppett, putt-putt.
The slate's the color of the dirty track suit, and gives nothing away.
The spider of the transit map mocks him.
End of the line nears.
What's a mother?
Doors open.
Cheeseburger.
Cheeseburger.

Nicole Lowman is a recent graduate of Seattle University's English program and the editor for Letter X Magazine (www.letterxmag.com). She wrote "La Hacienda" for Anne Leigh Parrish's "Building Character" class. The segment below is a portion of a now-slightly-longer and will-be-much-longer piece in which Jean faces her family and her future. Nicole says that, embarrassingly enough, this story was inspired by reruns of “Beverly Hills, 90210.”


“La Hacienda”
By Nicole Lowman

He pulled up in this little red number. The top was down, presumably so he could feel the breeze through his last 12 remaining strands of hair. When he smiled, his teeth glistened like the top of his head in the sun.
       
        “Hey little lady, you going my way?”
       
        “Sick, Dad. Don't be such a cheese bag. And quit practicing that midlife crisis crap on me. Does Mom know you bought this?”
   
        “Of course. She was there when I won good old Susi.” He rubbed the dashboard lovingly.
   
        “Susi? You freaking named the car? Jesus, Dad. How did you win a convertible?”
   
        “Charm.” He winked at me. “And skill. And maybe a little help from your mother. She is the best craps player I've ever met.”
   
        I still couldn't fathom his winning a convertible. I guess it was really my mom who won the car. At least a car was harder to lose at the tables than a bundle of cash.
   
        “Would you get in? We've got reservations for 6:30.”
       
        “I thought a car like this would get us there in less than 10 minutes. It must have some killer horsepower.

        Maybe we can ask the chef to deep fry the engine and serve it with some barbeque sauce.”
   
        “Easy there, Ms. Vegetarian. Quit the sarcasm. No animals were harmed in the construction or manufacturing of this vehicle.” He patted the passenger seat. “How's your day been? Feel any different?”
   
        “Nah. Birthdays lost their charm after 21. There's nothing important now. No milestones or anything. Just death.” The door handle was hot from baking in the sun. It was real metal. Maybe even silver, knowing the casinos those two frequented.
   
        “Nice attitude.” He squinted into his side-view mirror, then peeled out into traffic.
   
        “Nice driving, stud.”
   
        “Thirty's a milestone.” He ignored my comment. “Your mother had Shawna when she was 30.”
   
        “Great.” I turned to watch the trees whip past in a blur of mixed greens. “And why isn't Mom coming again?”
   
        “Come on, Jean. It's Bingo night at St. Mary's.”
   
        “Yeah, I bet God's real pleased that she's missing my birthday dinner to play fucking Bingo.”
   
        “Don't take it personal. After the second special she's going to meet us.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Eight o'clock the latest.”
   
        “And I guess Shawna's not coming either.”
   
        “It's finals week. She's swamped, you know?”
   
        “Yeah, I know. 'You can't get a Ph.D. overnight,' right?”
   
        “Take it easy over there. No one's dead. No one's denounced you as a family member. People are just busy.”
   
        “Whatever, Dad.”
   
        He cut right to make it into the parking lot and continued cutting to make it into the first open space. The side-view mirror on my side nearly smashed the “Valet Parking Available” sign at the corner.
   
        “Let's just have dinner and get it over with.”
   
        I slammed the door as I got out and nearly tripped over the curb as I made my way to the restaurant. Tall palm trees stood on opposite sides of the main entrance, and a wooden arch with gold letters announced that we had arrived at Palm Desert Hacienda. I waited at the oversized doors for my dad to waddle over. He turned and clicked the alarm when he finally reached me. Those extra 20 pounds had really slowed him down. I guess it would be easy to beef up if your diet consisted of French fries and whiskey sours. I couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten a meal without a cocktail and some deep-fried potato.
   
        “After you, M'lady,” he said as he pulled the golden handle. He bowed as he held the door for me.
   
        A dark-skinned man stood behind a podium lined with ivy. Ivy seemed slightly out of character for a hacienda, but I guess it enhanced the feng shui or whatever they would call it in Spanish. The man wore a tuxedo and a bright blue bowtie, which he adjusted as we approached.
   
        “Buenas noches, senores. Good evening. Bienvenido a la Hacienda. Welcome. A table for two?” His teeth sparkled beneath his chunky, black moustache.
   
        “We have a reservation. Franklin's the name.” My dad saluted the host with two fingers at his temple.
   
        “Oh. Si, si, si, senor Franklin. Yes, yes. We have a very beautiful table for you and this beautiful young lady. Muy bonita.” His left hand rose and fell rapidly as he spoke, his fingers pursed as if he were smoking a joint.    

        “Right this way, please. Venga conmigo por favor.”
   
        His hips swiveled while he walked. His slight lisp and dancer posture screamed gay, and I knew my dad would make some backhanded comment when we sat down.

        Half my family had deserted me, and now I would be stuck rebutting bigoted, homophobic rants from an overweight gambling addict. This was going to be one hell of a birthday.